And We All Fall Down
by Ink On Paper
Summary: It's only half past the point of no return . . . . . Written for the no safety pin challenge.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Written for the no-safety-pin challenge. **

**DISCLAIMER: Disclaimed.**

**WARNING: This first chapter is a very strong T for both language and violence.**

**And We All Fall Down**

_"It's only half past the point of no return."_

He counts to one hundred before he stands up, his chair cracking against the filing cabinet as he stalks from behind his desk. He feels McGee glance up, in terror is an exaggeration, but utter concern for the mental, emotional, and, possibly, physical well-being of his coworkers is not a descriptive stretch.

"I'm going home," he announces, voice controlled, and yes, this is going to be ugly. Gibbs, though, doesn't even bother looking up, instead grunts an acknowledgement while flipping through a file.

Tony forgoes the elevator, opting for the stairs out of subconscious need to alleviate some of the potential energy that's built up inside his chest. Because if he can wear himself down a bit with three flights of stairs, perhaps the pending explosion will not be quite as catastrophic . . . .

Damn her for being the first to walk away again.

She's leaning up against her car, slouching in the shadows, face half shrouded in darkness where the dim garage lighting can't find the trouble to reach. The jingle of metal supplies sound to the glimmer of silver as she juggles her car keys nonchalantly and it is this utterly indifferent and mundane action that makes his blood boil.

"I see we're just gonna skip the usual crap and go straight for passive-aggressive." His voice is that of carefully measured sarcasm, level in volume with the threat of crescendo.

Dark eyes flash up to meet a hard green gaze and her jaw is set obstinately as she snaps, "And what is that supposed to mean, Tony?" And it did not take much to get a rise from her.

"What the hell were you thinking earlier?" he demands without answering her question because she knows inherently what he means.

"What concern is it to you?" she replies coolly, lifting her chin defiantly and he thinks he really could slap her right now.

"You nearly got us killed!" and the accusation is roared at a volume that surprises them both, reverberating around the cement walls, sending silence scurrying for the corner. "You and your damn death wish! What the hell were you thinking?"

"What was _I_ thinking?" she's no longer slouching, now standing with her back erect and her face blank, rage swirling in her voice "You're the one that followed me, Tony."

_There's the grenade . . . . _

"I have no idea why," he growls and there's a flicker of hurt that enters her eyes and she blinks and it's gone.

Now she's just livid.

"Because you cannot live with the guilt!" she screams at him, matching him blow for blow. "You only ever do these things because you cannot stand feeling guilty! Jenny and Caitlin and Paula! Me! You only came after me because you thought it was your fault –you just wanted to sleep at night!"

"Believe it or not, Ziva, but not everything is about you-"

"Who said it was?"

"It's all one big production isn't it? You have to be the one in the life or death situations, you just have to be the brave one, the fearless one. So what if it kills you? Hell, so what if it kills me? What's another partner to you!" The words leave his mouth and his heart leaves his body because he did not . . . . could not . . . .

Her eyes are wild, big and dark and wild as she hisses, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Come on," he says sarcastically, spit flying, "Everyone is an accessory to you. I'm just like all the others! Disposable and isn't that ironic? So. Are. You." He should have just slapped her.

_And the safety pin clatters loudly to the floor . . . . _

A low string of Hebrew escapes her lips, the curses upon his name evident despite his inability to translate her words.

He's ahead in this twisted game they play and he has an outstanding urge to defend this sudden advantage. "Oh, drop the pretense, David. Don't act all surprised at the news, you know your daddy is a bastard. Hell, Rivkin was too and you had to have known that. He screwed you, Ziva, in more ways than one. And then, when he's gone and you're all out of deadbeats to play off of, you go and get yourself captured."

"I was not out of 'deadbeats' –there was still you!" she snaps, a feeble blow. "And you didn't have to come for me, you could have left me."

"Don't say it."

"Say _what_?"

"You didn't _deserve_ _it_."

_Don't even bother jamming the pin back in, it's futile anyway . . . . ._

She takes a step toward him, a feat more intimidating than given credit, her fists balled at her sides and, yes, she could kill him right now and it would be so very easy. "You should have left me then."

"You gonna hit me, David? Go on, have at it." He's goading the asp and is too stupid to stop, too stupid or so desperate that he hopes she'll just go ahead and end it.

She halts in her advance, stares at him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Me? Nothing. You? Ev-"

"Dammit, DiNozzo! The only thing wrong with me is you! You!"

"Of course," he agrees, emitting a mirthless bark of laughter, harsh and echoing.

"I love you!" A threatening admission that is neither acknowledged or ignored, but joins the swirling concoction of verbal bullets that ricochet around the parking garage dangerously.

"_Please_." Please.

_And you're out of options anyway . . . . ._

She opens her mouth, closes it. Then, "Damn you, Tony!" And she turns around, stalks toward her car, before spinning on heel, whirling around in a smear of black and gold.

He doesn't register the steely glint of the projectile that she lobs at him, the object arching through the air, expertly thrown with frightening precision. The car keys fall to the ground, skidding harmlessly a few feet away, and there is a sharp sting where his temple's been grazed. He shakes his head, trembling, starts to walk in the opposite direction.

_And time has now run out . . . . ._

Her voice stops him, the absolute measure in her words, the cold indifference, "That is right, Tony, walk away because that is always easiest, yes? Walk away from me, just like you walked away from Jeanne. Just like you walk away from everyone!"

"You know what, Ziva? Next time, don't worry about it. If you're so hell-bent on throwing yourself in harm's way, go right ahead. I promise I won't stop you."

_There is no stopping what comes next . . . . ._

He hears her behind him, knows she's there. And when he turns back once more to stare at her, he really is expecting it. There's a crack and her blow is dealt with the same terrible accuracy as the car keys, a mighty sucker punch to his left cheek, just below his eye, and, yes, it hurts.

"Bitch!" he roars, hand coming to cradle his face as he takes a staggering step backward.

She remains quiet, watching him nurse his injury with an unerring calm in her mahogany eyes. And the distant pang draws the recollection that the last time he saw her look like this, it was almost the last time. Dark, empty eyes that stared a hot tarmac, dark empty eyes in a dusty cell.

When she finally turns and walks back to her car, he doesn't say anything more. She doesn't look back and he doesn't call out because pride is a fickle thing. And when the engine revs and she peels out of her parking space, he remains still, debris settling all around him, filling the empty space she previously occupied.

And everything just seems to crumble.

_And only nothing remains. _


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Okay so it feels like I haven't written an author's note in forever! So . . . . What's up? How goes it? Life in the world of Kit has been clicking right along to a rather brisk clip (i.e. I have been a very busy bumble-bee) Between now and when I last posted several minor milestones have occured: I took my ACT, attended Homecoming (so much fun -and spirit week? Let's just say my class' float won and when we had to dress up as a character on Wednsday? I totally went as an NCIS Special Agent. Let's just, I am so getting a hat made.) and, perhaps on the more exciting end of the spectrum, NCIS SEASON 8 PREMIRE! I was satisfied, needless to say, but I totally called the end. Just saying. Anyway, CBS will not be receiving any unhappy letters of complaint. And the second episode with the interns? I liked it a lot. So, yeah, this year is looking good . . . . . I decided to continue this because 1.) I had several requests asking for such and 2.) I just couldn't leave it alone. This installment, however, deals with the more literal interpetation of the no_safety_pin challenge on LiveJournal. Enjoy, keep the peace and much love, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: On Sept. 21st, when I opened my lunch, I had a note written on my napkin. It read: "14 hours and counting. Go Team Gibbs!" Best Mom ever? I think so. :^)**

By noon it's apparent they aren't talking save for the few, terse words exchanged out of utter vitality for continued functioning of the team.

DiNozzo's arrival this morning was uncharacteristically early and his outward façade was firmly in place, the old nothing's-wrong mask carefully secured and unwavering. Impeccable charcoal suit, pressed shirt, straight tie, a picture of total togetherness. Except for the large, dark bruise staining his left cheekbone and the slight swelling underneath his eye; the shallow scrape at his temple.

But it isn't the injury that gave him away, it's his eyes. Anxious, guilty, agitated eyes that have spent the better half of the morning avoiding the smoldering hostility that emanates off of Ziva.

Evidently World War III broke out last night and the treaty has yet to be signed before the casualties begin to rise.

For two people who can't normally go half an hour without looking across the bullpen to make eye contact, they've studiously kept their respective gazes diverted to anywhere but the other. The quiet is oppressive, proving to be more counterproductive than conductive to the investigation because, while the lack of banter-filled distractions is in the theory a good thing, the silent no-man's land between the desks has everyone walking on eggshells. Strategic maneuvering on both parties' behalves has enabled the two to avoid being within the same vicinity for the majority of the morning, but Gibbs' patience is wearing thin for this petty childishness.

He doesn't want to get involved, has no desire to play mediator. But if Tony's got an ugly bruise, then they've really gotten into it, their verbal sparring mutating into violence, and frankly, the caseload just can't allow for Ziva to kill DiNozzo.

With a sigh, Gibbs stands, grabbing his half-empty Styrofoam cup and heading for the elevator.

Maybe when he returns some of the ice will have melted.

* * *

It starts with a dead petty officer. A dead petty officer and a crazed weapons expert who is quite skilled at evading the law.

The tipoff should have been the tipoff.

The case has taken the better half a week and it's been twenty-five hours since DiNozzo's spoken to Ziva and it all comes down to this.

_There are no take-backs . . . ._

They set up outside Hartman's residence on a sleepy street in a Georgetown suburb after the neighbor called, reporting gunshots, and, upon further investigation, a body that suspiciously looked like the fugitive himself.

NCIS is notified and immediately dispatched.

_Or do-overs . . . ._

Gibbs is near the back of the truck, grumbling about the gloves being moved again as Ducky and Palmer are either engaged in an intelligent conversation or an intense debate. McGee, having ridden in the backseat with a smoldering Ziva, had flown from the Charger before the vehicle even came to a complete stop. DiNozzo spent the entire commute glaring at his partner in the rearview mirror, carrying the tension all the way from the Navy Yard to the quiet neighborhood they now find themselves in.

In some cruel twist of fate, however, the two belligerents have miraculously found themselves within ten feet of each other, Tony stomping ahead of Ziva as she stalks behind him, scowling. McGee shakes his head, stepping underneath the awning of the wrap-around-porch, as he tosses a final glance back at his teammates. They should be over it by tomorrow, he decides, extending his hand and knocking, twice on the door. The only answer he receives is a phone ringing on the other side.

_And hindsight is 20/20 . . . ._

She had a feeling the day Tali died, an odd churning in her stomach, a tingling at the back of her neck. And when the bomb detonated on her in Cairo back in '01, she scarcely had time to react to the unsettling warning before it was searing pain and lights out.

The same feeling has crept over her now and she nearly wastes too much time acknowledging the foreshadow of devastation to do anything about it. With a strangled cry of, "Down!" she's already half-way into tackling Tony to the ground before all hell breaks loose.

_You can't find the damn rewind . . . ._

She hits him with all the mighty force that one-hundred twenty-seven pounds can muster, pressing him to the concrete path with a bone-jarring thud. He feels the knee of his pants tear on the gravel before the pain hits because, of course, it had to be his bad knee. And he doesn't know what it is that possesses him –and probably never will- but he's got Ziva flipped over, pinned beneath his body before he even realizes he's moved to shield her.

The sound of the explosion is deafening, the roar of heat and the crack of splintering wood as the house just crumbles. There's silence as the dust settles and shards of something, rock, wood, metal, he doesn't really care, rains down from above, softly like snow flurries, falling on him and around him.

Only when Ziva curses him does he think to move off of her and she's already on her feet and halfway to the porch while he still sits there, trying to get his breath back.

Suddenly, he springs up, yelling, "McGee!" when he realizes what the hell just happened.

_Forget the instant replay . . . ._

He's on his back, having been half-carried, half-dragged by Gibbs and Palmer to the lawn and away from the smoldering remains of the Hartman residence. His skin is deathly pale and his eyelids purplish and crimson is leaking from his nose and ears and lips. There're splinters and debris and his foot is twisted at a funny angle as Palmer administers CPR and Ducky begins cataloging his injuries. Gibbs is crouching near his head, telling McGee that he has absolutely no one's permission to die. Sirens begin to wail in the distance and they're so close, but so far, and neighbors are coming out of their homes and babies are crying and hysteria begins to set in.

Ziva is a few feet away, snapping orders into Gibbs' phone, Hebrew sneaking into her words. And Tony can see her trembling slightly, but admires the unwavering strength her voice commands. Gibbs barks at him to secure the scene, call the bomb squad, keep order.

_Because you cannot live in tomorrow anymore than you can live in yesterday. _


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This is the last chapter for this, so fair warning. And, yeah, I kinda do leave you hanging. (Imagination people!) Love you all, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Based upon a 2,000 calorie diet.**

She tilts her head back into the cascade, allows the water to massage the tension from her weary body. The humidity of the bathroom is suffocating, but welcome because the intense heat is her sole focus. The intense heat and the pounding water.

And not the haunting images of McGee, lying bleeding and broken.

She wrings her hair out, watches the soap suds slide from her dark tresses, watches the dirt and ash, the debris and dust, the blood and sweat all mingle on the tile floor before swirling down the drain.

She watches remnants of the day slip lazily into oblivion.

Exhaustion and hunger supersede her reluctance to leave the cleansing atmosphere surrounding her and she shuts off the water before groping blindly for a towel. And the cool air outside the shower curtain rushes into the stall, the refreshing chill soothing her flushed skin.

It does little though to alleviate her anxiety.

_And it's only half past the point of no return . . . . ._

She isn't surprised to find him sitting at her kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall, eyes unseeing and thoughts very far away. He feels her presence, looking up to meet her eyes, green touching brown just as she comes to be framed in the doorway.

"Tony," she acknowledges by way of greeting and it isn't defensive nor blatantly inviting and all semblances of a question are vacant.

"Zee-vah," he breathes, breaking eye contact to rub his face tiredly, his fingers coming to pinch the bridge of his nose. He sighs, offering her a lame smile that lacks its usual vibrancy, but it's genuine and she welcomes the truce. "I made you a sandwich," he says, indicating with his chin the lone plate flanked by a glass of milk resting at the center of the table.

She nods, pulling her robe tighter against herself, crossing the few feet separating them to the table. He watches as she picks up the sandwich and takes a bite, sees the embarrassed pleasure flicker across her face as she relishes the simplicity of a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich.

She swallows, uttering a grateful, "Toda."

"Prego."

"There are clean towels under the sink," she informs him, eyes grazing over his disheveled appearance. He's still wearing his suit minus the jacket and tie, with his slacks ripped at the knee and gravel and dust peppering his wrinkled dress shirt.

He nods once, a mechanical bob of his head, the chair legs scraping back as he stands, silently making his way toward the bathroom.

And she watches him go and finds herself blinking away the sudden stinging behind her eyelids.

_There are more regrets than heartbeats . . . ._

He isn't surprised to find her perching on the bathroom countertop, legs crossed Indian-style as she leans up against the steam-fogged mirror clad only in her panties and a tank top. She opens her eyes idly at the sound of the shower curtain sliding back, extending a towel toward her dripping partner, with water droplets clinging to his hair and face and shoulders and chest.

His lips twitch up a bit as he wraps the proffered towel modestly around his waist, but his expression grows guarded when she stirs, unfolding herself from her position beside the sink, coming to stand before him, toe to toe.

She stares at him and her mahogany gaze is unsettling in its opaqueness. She memorizes the planes of his face, the paths the rivulets of water trace down his skin, the roughness of his jaw. Because it seems so dire now to imprint these things, little insignificant things, about him, inscribe them in her mind with permanent ink so they'll never go away.

She watches him appraise her with a caution that makes her chest hurt. And when her attention settles on the purplish patch shadowing just beneath his left eye, her breath catches slightly and she raises a tentative hand to touch the bruise she dealt. And her fingertips are soft as they ghost across his darkened skin, her hand warm as she curls her palm to fit his cheek. And he finds himself nuzzling her hand, pressing closer to the contact she's initiated.

She places a chaste kiss to his jaw and steps back with lowered eyes.

His cell phone erupts to life in her bedroom, spewing its harsh trill into the silence and they both flinch at the sound. He mutters a soft, "Gibbs," in realization and she nods, following him mutely, because her throat is suddenly dry and her voice is stuck in her chest.

"DiNozzo," he answers bravely, eyes taking on a determined glint as if he can force fate to bend to his mere will.

She watches Tony's mouth move, his lips form the words he speaks into the receiver, but she can't hear what he's saying over the blood pounding in her ears. It registers somewhere in her scattered thoughts that this could be a panic attack, but Tony's voice replying, "Yeah, boss, I'll let her know," and the click as he snaps the phone shut quells the growing dread.

He stares at her before letting out a heavy breath, his cell slipping from his slackened grip, bouncing happily onto the mattress. "Well?" she demands after he's made no move to speak or offer an expression to help her gauge McGee's fate.

"He's been out of surgery for about an hour, they have the hemorrhaging under control now and the swelling in his brain is going down. They said he lost a lot of blood because of a ruptured spleen. He's got some broken bones in his foot and a fractured rib, but the doctors are hopeful. He'll have some nasty bruises and probably no recollection of the bomb, but he should recover . . . ." Tony trails off, lowers himself to perch at the foot of the bed as Ziva processes the information.

She licks her lips unconsciously, carefully phrases her question: "Has Gibbs seen him?"

A nod of conformation, "Yeah. Spoke to him when he was in recovery, said he was disoriented and totally numb from the drugs. The doctors have him on some crazy dosage of pain killers, Gibbs says he'll be out of it for a while . . . . He's fine."

"Yes."

There's a pause and then Tony stands up, moves toward her, arms held away from his sides, an invitation for a hug. And she debates this, him, for a moment before stepping forward, pressing herself against him, resting her cheek against his chest. And he tucks her head under his chin, squeezes her tightly, releases another sigh. His lips brush her temple and she lifts her head up, tilts her face to meet his eyes, to let understanding flow through them without spoken word. And his mouth is soft on hers, soft and patient and comforting and the only thing separating them is thin cotton and a terrycloth towel.

_And you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone._

"I should not have gone into that house the other day; I-I should have waited, like you said."

He brushes his thumb over her knuckles, nods into the darkness. "Yes," he agrees, "you should have. But, that never gave me the prerogative to say the things I said."

"Some of them were justified, Tony."

He squeezes her fingers, whispering, "No, no none of them were."

"You are not a deadbeat," she murmurs, kissing his shoulder. And she hears the smile in his voice when he says, "Thanks, I think."

"You are welcome. . . . . It is scary that we know just what to say to cause the most pain, to twist the knife just so . . . ."

"To inflict the most damage," he adds, pensively. And she's right, of course. And it does scare the hell out of him.

"Yes," she agrees absently.

And it sucks, he thinks, as he listens to her breathing slow, listens to her roll onto her side, her back to him. It sucks that it takes another near death experience to make them realize how important the other is, how fragile and uncertain life can be. It's totally cliché and utterly fitting, he muses, in a sad, twisted kind of way.

_Because there are things in this world that you can never get back. _

It dawns on him as he lays there beside her, last night replaying like an unpleasant movie reel in his head, as they accuse each other and hurl sharp words –and pointy objects- at the other mercilessly. It's only on the third repeat of should haves, could haves, and didn'ts, that he realizes how stupid he's been.

And yes, it is scary that they know each other so well that they can tear the other apart with a few choice blows.

What's scarier, though, is that it's never his life flashing before his eyes –and it hasn't been, for quite some time. What's scary, he decides, is that it's always his life without _her _that he sees.

He rolls on his side, spooning up against her, curling himself around her sleeping form. And he feels her back expand against his chest as she breathes out slowly, feels her heart beat through her skin. Propping himself up on his elbow, he does watch her sleep, as stalkerish as he fears that may be. And he memorizes her, the crease between her eyebrows, the way her lips part slightly.

He buries his face between her shoulder blades, presses a kiss to her spine.

_It's better late than never._

And then he whispers softly, "And Ziva? I love you, too."


End file.
